A tall, sunburnt
man, in a clean shirt with no collar, led the group, and then
came a stout woman about my own build, and a hired man and
three children.
"Good evening!" I said. "Is this Mr. Pratt?"
"Sure thing!" said he. "Where's the Perfessor?"
"On his way to Brooklyn," said I. "And I've got Parnassus.
He told me to be sure to call on you. So here we are."
"Well, I want to know!" ejaculated Mrs. Pratt. "Think of
Parnassus turned suffrage! Ben, you put up the critters, and
I'll take Mrs. Mifflin in to supper."
"Hold on there," I said. "My name's McGill--Miss McGill.
See, it's painted on the wagon. I bought the outfit from Mr.
Mifflin. A business proposition entirely."
"Well, well," said Mr. Pratt. "We're glad to see any friend
of the Perfessor. Sorry he's not here, too. Come right in
and have a bite with us."
They were certainly good-hearted folk, Mr. and Mrs. Ben Pratt.
He put Peg and Bock away in the barn and gave them their
supper, while Mrs. Pratt took me up to her spare bedroom and
brought me a jug of hot water. Then they all trooped back
into the dining-room and the meal began again. I am a
connoisseur of farm cooking, I guess, and I've got to hand it
to Beulah Pratt that she was an A-1 housewife.
Pages:
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95